


driving babe heffron

by LydiaOfNarnia



Series: five times, one time prompts [2]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Driving, M/M, Minor Injuries, babe can't drive: a series of moments, but its ok, so technically babe runs someone over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-19 23:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11908737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: Babe has never gotten his driver's license, and at this point it looks like he never will. Maybe that's for the best.(Or: Five times people tried to teach Babe how to drive, and the one time it landed him in the hospital.)





	driving babe heffron

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

_**one** _

The first time Babe gets behind the wheel of a car for real (his first driving test, his first chance at getting his license, the make-or-break moment that will decide his independence) he crashes into a mailbox.

To be fair, it isn't his fault. He was doing really well. He remembered which one was the gas and which one was the break, he only drove onto somebody’s lawn once, and he even managed to stop at a stop sign. He was doing a great job, until the mailbox came out of nowhere and ruined it for him.

One flat mailbox and a dented number later, Babe shuts off the car in the middle of someone’s front lawn. He turns to his driving instructor and offers a smile.

“Well,” he says, “I don't think I did too badly.”

Mr. Sobel’s face is very red. His hands are clenched around his clipboard for dear life, and his pen has exploded, spewing blue ink all over the front of his shirt.

 _“Get out_ of the car,” he hisses, and Babe can't scramble out fast enough.

He doesn't get his license that day. He doesn't try again for three more years.

* * *

  ** _two_**

He thinks his avoidance tactics are going pretty well, too, until the day his friend throws down the gauntlet.

“This is ridiculous,” Julian declares, allowing the kitchen door to slam shut behind him. “We can't keep haulin’ your ass around, Babe. It's sad.”

Babe, who’s been minding his own business on the couch until this very moment, takes the affront head-on. He turns to Julian, scowling into his friend’s sullen face. “I pay for gas!” he fires back. (After three years bumming rides off of his friends, he has a plethora of defenses at the ready.)

It's not fair. Julian has been friends with him for years. He was around during the whole Sobel debacle, and all that followed. He knows why Babe has no desire to get his license, so confronting him about this now is nothing short of cruelty.

“You're a twenty year old man, Babe. It's just sad. You're gonna be old enough to drink. You've gotta learn how to drive a car.”

“I know how to drive a car!” exclaims Babe, sitting upright. If he's being honest, he’s forgotten most of the details of actual driving, but it's like riding a bike, right? Once you learn it, you don't forget it. (Babe also does not remember how to ride a bike, even though he knows his father went through a lot of effort to teach him as a child. If he was handed a bike now, though, he's sure he could manage.)

“No.” Julian shakes his head. He raises a hand; the clink of metal catches Babe’s attention even before the set of keys fly towards him. He snatches them out of the air and blinks dumbly down at them before raising his eyebrows at his friend.

“You,” says Julian, “are going to learn how to drive a damn car.

* * *

Up until he got in the car with Julian, Babe had been pretty sure nothing could ever beat the Sobel debacle for “worst driving experience ever”.

He was wrong. Something about Julian always serves to fly in the face of expectations. It's like the kid gets a kick out of doing the least expected thing, even if it ruins everyone else’s day in the process. The sheer _involvement_ of Julian should have warned Babe that this was not going to go well.

Instead, he crashes into the house.

This is also not Babe’s fault. He was doing everything right, up until the point Julian suggested it would be easier to drive up and down the street instead of going to a parking lot, or to anywhere without actual cars, people, or other obstacles.

“What's the point? You know how to drive anyway, right?”

Babe does, in fact, know how to drive. Sitting behind the wheel, his mind flashes back to the bike riding analogy, and he grits his teeth. He can do this. This is absolutely no problem.

He steps on the brake. Nothing happens.

“Babe,” says Julian, “you've got to take the car out of park first.”

“Do I? I thought I did that.”

“No, it's still in park. Look there.”

“It's on ‘P’. What's that mean?”

“The hell do you think it means?” Julian aims a swat at Babe’s head, which Babe deftly avoids. His friend’s hand winds up hitting the horn instead, which gives a short but resounding beep. Babe flowers at Julian, who retracts his hand with an innocent expression on his face.

Rolling his eyes, Babe placed his foot on the break and shifts the car into reverse. He knows how to do _that_ much, at least. He just sort of… forgot about that part.

There's no shame in forgetting. It doesn't mean he has no clue how to drive. He gently presses his foot on the gas -- no, wait, that's the break -- he shifts his foot to the gas and begins reversing out of the driveway.

By the time they're on the street, things go smoother. Babe’s found his footing, literally. Before long he’s cruising up and down the street, and the smile on his face shows just how confident he is. There are no bumps in the road, no hiccups in his rhythm. The engine purrs under his feet, a sweet-sounding symphony.

It’s when he turns back into the driveway that he has a problem.

“Okay,” coaches Julian. “Now, you pull in behind Bill’s car, so just accelerate a little bit --”

Babe accelerates.

He’s not sure what exactly happens after that. All he knows is that the car is suddenly moving at the speed of a bullet, his own scream is caught in his throat, and Bill’s car is way closer than it should be.

Caught up in a blind rush of panic, there’s only one thing he can think of to do -- and it’s not jam on the brakes. Instead, he spins the wheel.

Suddenly, it’s not Bill’s car, but the house that is much closer than it needs to be. Or maybe it’s the car that is much closer than it ought to be to the house.

 _“Much closer,”_ in this case, meaning _“in the middle of the kitchen”._

Julian gapes at the shattered remains of what once was the wall of their house. There’s still a bush attached to the front of the smashed bumper; shattered glass and wood dusts the hood of the car; and the windshield is a complicated spiderweb of shattered glass barely holding itself together.

Babe slumps back in his seat, and shifts the car into park. “Oh.”

“Holy shit,” Julian says; and again, in a much smaller voice, “holy shit.”

(Luz and Lip team up to repair the wall of their house within a week. The counter takes longer to replace. All of the money comes out of Babe and Julian’s combined pockets.

“You're both hazards to yourselves and others,” Bill tells them after giving them each a sound smack on the head. “Especially others.”)

* * *

  ** _three_**

After the debacle that is called many names in their house _(“The Kitchening”_ is Babe’s favorite; followed by Fran’s _“The Fast and the Furious: Kitchen Rift”)_ , everyone comes to the unanimous decision that Babe must learn how to drive.

In Babe’s opinion, this seems to go against all sound logic -- if he's proven to be dangerous behind the wheel, shouldn't they keep him away from cars entirely? -- but he stands no chance at arguing against all his friends when they team up against him. Bill or Julian he could take, sure, even Fran on a good day; but against all of them? He doesn't stand a chance.

Julian is resolute in his decision to never step foot into a car with Babe again. Instead, the rest of his friends have a prolonged rock-paper-scissors match, with too many rematches to count, which lasts for well over an hour.

This is how Babe winds up sitting behind the wheel next to Spina, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

“Okay, Babe,” his friend tells him. “Let's get started. Around the parking lot, nice and easy.”

Babe’s eye twitches. “Spina, I've driven around parking lots before. Hell, I've driven on roads before.”

“You've also driven in our house, so you're doing what I say now. Drive around the freakin’ parking lot, Babe.”

Babe holds up his hands (Spina lets out a little squawk at the sight of them both off of the wheel). When he accelerates a little faster, his friend takes a deep breath.

“Jesus, lower your blood pressure,” Babe mutters. He reaches towards the radio, only to have his hand slapped away.

“The hell are you doin’?” Spina demands, eyes wide. Babe shrugs.

“Just wanted some music. What, is that a crime now?”

“No, it's not -- I mean --” Spina sputters for a moment, his nerves obviously getting the better at him, before he makes a vague gesture towards the windshield. “Focus on the road!”

Muttering under his breath, Babe nevertheless does what he’s asked. His friend is being ridiculous. They all are, actually, but Spina takes the cake. He already crashed into the house, and that was a freak accident. It's not like anything like that is going to happen again. It's not as if Babe could possibly do anything worse.

There’s a line, Babe decides. When you cross that line, you can't go back, but at least you've already crossed the line. You can't go any farther, you can't do anything to make it even worse --

And that's when the front of the car slams into something solid, and Babe discovers that he can, in fact, do worse than crash into the house.

A massive torrent of water spews up in front of the car. High into the air it soars, dozens of feet above Babe’s head. It falls onto the car, around the car and to the pavement below, like a torrent from the heavens.

“What the hell?” exclaims Babe. Spina spits out a curse and lurches forward to catch sight of what the bumper is caught on.

“Aww hell, Babe, you hit a goddamn fire hydrant!”

Caught in the deluge of the century, water rocketing out of the ground just feet in front of him, Babe is stunned. There's a part of his brain that can't believe he didn't notice the hydrant in the first place; another part is amazed he managed to fuck up so badly. The third, more rational part of his brain is screaming in horror.

“That wasn't my fault,” is the first thing out of his mouth.

His friend stares at him for a long moment, and then begins to slowly climb into the back of the car. “Babe,” he says, “I'm real sorry, but you're gonna have to find another teacher. I value my life too much. This ain't worth it.”

He makes his exit out of the back of the car, managing to avoid the shower of water spraying in all directions. Babe turns around in his seat and watches his friend flee from the scene as fast as his legs will carry him. Left alone, he sighs to himself, and reaches over to turn on the radio again.

 _Baby Can’t Drive._ Typical.

(Babe floods an entire high school parking lot, gets into the local paper, and is treated to a very stern lecture from city officials. His mother calls him up just to holler at him, and his sister tells him she pinned the picture of him they used in the article up in her room. Babe decides he's done worse things in his life.) 

* * *

  _ **four**_

This one really _isn't_ Babe’s fault, because the other car wasn't even driving in the right lane.

“No,” Bill says. “No, you absolute dumbass, you ball-throated ginger bastard, you chickenassed fuckin’ _twit._ You were driving in the wrong fucking lane! You were going the wrong way! How the hell do you go the _wrong fucking way?”_

“Who said it was the wrong way?”

“There was exactly one way to go, Babe!” Bill hollers, pointing to the giant neon **ONE WAY ONLY** sign above their head. “And you were going the _wrong -- fucking -- way!”_

He slams his fist down on the horn, which blares. Babe winces, trying to twist away from the noise -- and the sight of the other driver bouncing up and down in front of his car, which now sports a smashed taillight and a sizeable dent in the bumper. Considering the havoc he wrought on the other cars he's driven, this seems pretty minor.

All things considered, Babe decides, it could have been worse.

“Jesus Christ,” Bill says, slamming his head down on the dashboard. “We're gonna get sued.”

(They do not, in fact, get sued, but their insurance sure isn't happy with them. Neither is Julian, considering they just wrecked _his_ car.)

* * *

  ** _five_**

By the time the only person left to teach him is Frannie, Babe is (quite justifiably) scared for his life. It's one thing to fuck up with Julian, Spina, and Bill. Fran is another, much more lethal, story.

Fran and Bill are the proud owners of a large black jeep, which presumably looked less ancient when Bill bought it at a used car sale four years ago. The general consensus now is that it's a miracle the thing still drives at all, but Bill and Fran keep it in working order. Fran refuses to take it to a mechanic, so does all the work on it herself; Bill keeps the inside and outside so clean you could eat off of it. The loud gagging noises the car makes whenever it starts are, according to them both, just a “quirk” it has. They treat that car like their child.

With Julian and Spina’s cars now virtually unusable through trial by fire, Babe is horrified when Fran drags him out of the house and plants him in the seat of their one remaining car. There is no possible way for this to go well.

If he fucks up the car, Bill will want to murder him. If he fucks up next to Fran, however, she'll kill him long before Bill gets the chance.

One misstep, Babe realizes, and he's a dead man.

“Oh, no,” he says, and goes to open the door. The locks all click shut before he can get the chance.

Fran is staring hard at him from the passenger’s seat. She leans back, nods once towards the road, and hands Babe the keys.

“Please don't make me do this.” Babe is too young to die.

“You're going to drive this car,” Frannie tells him, “and you are not going to fuck up. If you do, I will hurt you. I don't have to tell you _how_ I'll hurt you, but we both know I will, so I'll let you use your imagination.”

Babe’s imagination promptly conjures the most graphic scenario imagineable. He pales. Frannie smiles.

 _“Drive,”_ she orders, and Babe starts up the car.

* * *

Things actually go a lot better than expected. Babe wonders is it's because he spends the entire ride in a state of mortal terror. There is no cocky jolt of overconfidence leading him to make stupid decisions. He pays attention to everything; he is careful, cautious, and cool. The only slight hiccup is when he accidentally drives up on the curb, but Fran talks him out of that. Her steady instructions save Babe from turning the ride into a disaster.

Things are going really, really well. They're just about to pull back into the driveway, calling this attempt an unmitigated success, when Bill comes flying out of the house.

His best friend’s panic, Babe will later reflect, was warranted. He knows exactly what sort of driver Babe is, so it's reasonable that he would be frightened for his pride and joy’s life -- both his girlfriend and his car.

Unfortunately, Babe was so busy being frightened for his _own_ life, that he didn't need to add Bill’s life to the list.

No sane person runs out in front of a car. That's just… not a thing that’s done. Even Babe knows that.

This doesn't explain why Bill Guarnere is standing pantsless in the middle of their street, waving his arms like he's a panicking civilian trying to flag down the nearest ambulance. Babe catches Bill in his headlights, and only has time to think _what the hell?_ before jamming on the breaks.

At least, jamming on what he thinks are the breaks.

If Babe needs to work on any part of his driving at all, it's learning the difference between the breaks and the gas pedal.

The car surges forward, and no one has time to react. Fran can't scream; Babe can't swerve; and Bill, certainly, can't dive out of the way. He bounces off the front of the car with an earth-shattering crash.

There's a moment between feeling the impact of Bill’s body and watching him hit the ground where time feels like it's frozen. Babe gapes over the steering wheel, wide eyed, tasting his heart in his throat as he struggles to process what just happened. A large part of him can't believe it; a larger part of him doesn't want to believe it. All he really knows is that _he just ran over this best friend,_ and _Bill is literally never going to forgive him for this._ He catches a flash of Bill’s face as he’s falling, and Babe can see murder in his eyes.

Admittedly, hitting Bill _may_ have been Babe’s fault.

Time speeds up again. Bill bounces off the pavement. Fran’s scream pierces the car. Babe doesn't move a muscle.

“Holy shit!” Fran hollers, repeating the sentiment a few times for effect. She gets up on her knees, peering over the dashboard at Bill’s motionless body, and slams her hands against the windshield.

Babe is ready to vomit. “Shit, do -- do you think he's okay?”

“I have no clue, Babe,” Fran replies in a pitched, half-frantic voice. “Does he _look_ o-fuckin’-kay to you?”

Babe looks. “His fake leg is on the other side of the street.”

 _“Yeah._ Great obser _vation,_ Sherlock!”

Fran scrambles out of the car. Babe watches her rush to Bill’s side, pawing at his body more like a hungry lioness that a concerned girlfriend. It takes a few seconds for Bill to stir, and the first thing out of his mouth must be smart, because Fran smacks him on the shoulder.

Then, like a single unit, the couple’s eyes flash towards the car. Fran looks like a woman possessed, the darkness in her glare unparalleled. And Bill, well, Bill just looks…

Slowly, Babe locks the car doors again.

He tugs his phone out of his pocket and begins to pound in 9-1-1 with trembling hands. He's not sure whether the ambulance the send is going to be for Bill or himself.

* * *

 

**_plus one_ **

They don’t have to send another ambulance, in the end, because Babe only winds up with a bruised back, a dislocated shoulder, a black eye, an aching jaw, and a neck cramp the size of Penn State.

(The back injuries were obtained after he tried to climb a tree to get away, and subsequently fell out. He's also dripping wet, because he had the bright idea that he could hide from Fran in the backyard, only for her flying kick to send him into the pool. The fact that Fran put him in a headlock for three whole minutes -- the cause of his neck cramp -- instead of strangling him is a testament to her self-restraint.)

He takes an Uber to the hospital. This is for the best.

Sitting in the emergency room as he reflects on the various awful turns this day has taken (kind of like Babe’s driving) he considers that maybe he should just give up driving altogether. He’s no good at it, obviously. It’s costing them more money than they have. Now it stands a very real chance at getting someone killed, whether that someone is Bill, or Babe once Bill gets his hands on him.

The second a doctor steps behind his curtained room, Babe is immediately on alert. He bolts upright, then promptly regrets it when his injured ribs flare in protest. Though he doubles over with a groan, he doesn’t miss the newcomer’s exasperated expression.

“Well, you look like you’ve seen better days,” the doctor observes, voice rich with a deep Cajun accent. Babe grunts in agreement, leaning back against the pillows.

“That’s an understatement, Doc.”

The doctor is busy peering at his chart, allowing Babe a very good look at him. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin matched with delicate features -- the sort of face you write entire poems about, if Babe were any good at poetry. He’s painfully handsome, and the huff he gives when he notes something on the chart leaves Babe’s chest feeling tight for an entirely different reason.

“It says here you ran over your friend?”

The doctor glances up at him, inquisitive. Babe feels his dignity wilt. “Not my proudest moment, yeah,” he admits, wincing. “I gotta know, Doc, is Bill okay? Is he dying? _Please_ tell me I didn’t kill him.”

“He’s nowhere close to dying. Got a concussion, probably, and a few broken ribs that’ll need bandaging for a while. The way he fell, if he had a leg he’d probably have broken it, but, well --”

“That train’s left the station,” Babe mutters, thinking of Bill’s fake leg lyign on the other side of the street. He chuckles in spite of himself, then regrets it when everything flares up in pain at once. _“Ow,_ jesus, ow.”

“Take it easy.” The doctor’s gentle hands ease him upright, guiding him to relax but not to lay back completely. Babe feels the doctor explore his chest, and lets out a gasp when he brushes up against his shoulder.

“Seems like you dislocated that. We’ve gotta set it, but I think that’s the worst of what you caught. Though you might wanna put some ice on our face when you get home.”

His jaw is still aching. Babe winces, then lets out a grunt at the pain. He sees the doctor chuckle softly to himself as he shakes his head.

Hands reposition themselves along Babe’s shoulder. The doctor is close now, close enough that Babe can trace the cleft in his chin, and count each individual eyelash. God, he’s gorgeous. Babe just wishes he were pressed up next to him for a nicer reason, instead of having to pop his limb back into place.

“Is this gonna hurt?” he huffs out, even though he has a feeling the answer is a resounding yes.

“A lot,” the doctor replies. “Just stay still, Heffron. Let me do all the work.”

“What, you get to use my name, but you’ve got your hands all over me and I still don’t know yours?”

The doctor is clearly taken aback by the brazen flirtation. His eyes widen imperceptibly, then he huffs out a laugh. “Unprofessional of me. I’m Doctor Roe. But my friends…”

There is an awful pop in Babe’s shoulder, followed by a fireflash of blinding agony. Babe doubles forward, screaming; the pain lasts only a second before it is replaced by sweet, sweet relief. When he looks up at Roe again, panting and stunned, the doctor looks too pleased with himself.

“My friends call me Gene.”

“Well, Gene…” It takes a lot of effort, but Babe manages to shift his recently-relocated shoulder enough to extend a hand. “My friends call me Babe. I hope this makes us friends.”

Gene’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Considering you’re in the habit of running your friends over with cars…”

“I was trying to learn to drive!”

“Here’s a tip,” Gene replies, straightening up. “Try not to hit anyone.”

Babe considers this. “Good advice. Never thought of that before.”

He knows he has to get out of the hospital before Bill is on his feet hunting for him (actually, it might be best if Babe fled the country for a few days). Just for a moment, however, he’s more than happy to stay in the light of Gene’s smirk, feeling the warmth of the doctor’s touch linger on his skin.

“Hey, uhh --” Babe says after a few seconds of furious deliberation. “You wanna… go out to dinner sometime, maybe?”

Gene grins. “Depends. Are you gonna be driving?”


End file.
